“He’s cheating,” Nettie sneered as she stared in at her puny brother. “Hiding like that, where we can’t get him!”

            Paul stumbled backward just as long, slender fingers shoved their way inside his shelter. He tripped through dust and dirt and clambered back into void. The worming digits beyond gave way to an entire hand pushed through the opening. Panic reignited, the boy only just dodged the clamping feminine fingers. Instead he darted toward an opening on the opposite side of the cabinet’s underhang.

            Paul crept back into light. His eye snagged on a wall vent just a hop, skip, and a jump away from where he stood now. Unfortunately, all three of those methods of motion weren’t much help for one so small. He sprinted again, careful not to gasp too loudly for air.

            “HEY!” one of his second cousins remarked. “He’s getting away!”

            “Quit pushing! I want to do it!”

            “No, I’m gonna skoosh him!”

            “In your dreams!”

            There was a mad scramble of enormous beings somewhere behind Paul, though he dared not look over his shoulder. The ground rumbled and bounced beneath him. Petticoats like white flowers the size of mountains flared and ruffled above and all around. Spotless saddle shoes worn by his cousins crash-landed with the force of falling school buses, mere inches away, as they made their attempts to crush him. Behind the crowd were several pairs of long pumps, plowing down into the carpet with concussive force, belonging to his aunts and mother.

            “Hey! Mom, Nettie shoved me before I could stomp her brother!” one second cousin whined.

            “Got to say, that little shrinking violet sure does want to live, doesn’t he?” a great aunt chuckled.

            “Move! Ergghh! Come BACK, Paul, so Alice can show you a world all her own!” The voice of Elise carried easily above the other yapping brats.

            Only by the miracle of his family’s awkward wrestling over who’d actually get to commit the deed, did Paul escape the typhoon of clomping hard-soled shoes. Hands over his head, he swan-dove into the wall vent.

            Paul ran again, with slight hope renewed in his heart. He couldn’t remain in this tunnel forever, but it was his best route to another room less occupied by his family. If he could survive that encounter, he could survive another.

            Did this game even have an end, though? Was there an objective for him? Or did it simply end when someone stamped him?

            As he sprinted, Paul had to slow to a jog when he realized a growing problem between his legs yet again diverting blood flow. He was almost more exasperated with the continuation of his sad primal urges than the joyous murder hunt taking place in his very own home. What kind of creature was he?

            Blooming light fixtures through the vent cracks guided Paul into his next battleground. He crept through the opening in the wall and set foot on the spotless kitchen floor. The sunflower-yellow space resembled a modern castle foyer now for its sheen and cleanliness, not to mention towering table leg pillars which reminded the boy he was a speck in a hall of the gods.

            But he knew it was suicide to simply marvel at the insanity of his scale. On the hard floor of the adjoining hall, Paul could make out the insistent clack of pump heels, echoing in all directions. They were coming this way. Multiple pairs, in fact. At least two and possibly three.

            His gaze darted wildly. Paul caught sight of the pantry door, cracked just ajar, off to his left. It was the nearest and best hope. Shaking off the cramps, he sprinted through the partition just as the three pairs of prodigious footwear clapped thunderously into the kitchen.

            Paul sidled between stacked metal cans of condensed soup and canned peaches. A box of dusty oatmeal rested in the back, the top perforated. It was enough of a hiding place for now. His legs trembled from the staggering rumble sent through the floor as the three heel-wearing women spread out over the kitchen. Without turning to peek, Paul burrowed into the opening of the oatmeal box.

            This time, the pounding of feet wasn’t in the fired-up fashion of a stampede. This wasn’t the giddy scampering of young girls jumping and skittering about. Those heels were placed down with thoughtful purpose; no rush, no fuss. No giggling and hand-clapping as they argued over him. Just the hard-soled, shotgun-like thump of a heel and its spear meeting the earth beneath a being of greater, more mature form and figure.

            Even without line of sight, Paul knew the three pairs of pumps belonged to his mother and two aunts.

            “Oh, Paul! Paul, dear!” Aunt Debra crooned.

            “Your favorite aunties would like a word!” Aunt Kathleen added.

            “It’s really all right to come out now, Paul,” his mother Patricia chimed in. “We’d only like to demonstrate for you how we as a family feel about your misguided hobbies.”

            The voices rose above what sounded to the boy like kitchen cabinets being lovingly unlatched, opened, then shut again. Chairs scraped along the tile floor. Pots and pans were rummaged by hands careful not to make too much noise and risk missing the boy’s trail.

            Unlike his previous family encounter, these particular middle-aged hunters knew how to stalk prey without getting in their own way. Despite there being fewer feminine threats to contend with in this room than the last, Paul couldn’t help but feel he was in greater danger now. His stomach churned.

            “Paul, don’t you want to play footsy again with your auntie again?” Aunt Kathleen called out. “I’m ready if you are.”

            “I don’t think he’ll like the kind of “end” he comes to if you try that again,” Aunt Debra added.

            “Oh, you ladies are incorrigible!” Patricia said, though she couldn’t help but giggle as well.

            The deadly rummage continued. Paul’s pulse was skyrocketing. He watched the pantry door pried open on squeaking hinges. Burrowing down deeper into the clustered oats didn’t make him feel much safer. Both of his aunts crouched in front of the shelves, rotating cans and parting cereal boxes. The soft rustling of their long fingernails drawing ever-closer on the wood encouraged Paul to bury himself even deeper.

            “You know, this really has been a lovely visit, Patricia,” Aunt Debra remarked. “The lunch was delicious, as always, and you certainly know how to put together a good group activity for everyone.”

            “Why, thank you!”

            “It’s been so long since we all did something this much fun as a family, hasn’t it?” Aunt Kathleen said. “At least since the scavenger hunt last fall.”

            “Oh, but this is so much better than that!” Debra said.

            “I couldn’t agree more,” Patricia said. “Now, did anyone check the oatmeal?”

            Paul went rigid again. Maybe there was more than one box of oatmeal?

            His cardboard shelter was turned on its head. A stream of dry grain came pouring out of the box, followed by the tumbling half-inch body of Paul. Dumbfounded, he looked up to find his mother and both of his aunts now standing above him like sentinels, the leather pyramids of each of their heel tips pointed directly at him.

            “Why Mary-Anne! What are you doing down here?” Debra joked. She clasped her hands together in mock-swoon. “Aren’t you just sharp as a tack, Patricia!”

            “Now let’s see if he’s as happy with my foot on his body now,” Kathleen purred, licking her lips. Her heel arched up.

            “Not so fast,” Patricia said slyly. She curled her fingers at her sides. “I found my little boy. Seems only right I’m the one to tag him “it.”

            Paul’s mother did just that. Her shoe, anchored by the spike, wrested from the floor and draped over her son’s body. Then, with precision only a mother could possess while dealing with her children, the woman pressed. Crushing weight distributed itself by the ton across the shadowy surface of Patricia’s worn sole. Paul was pinned spread-eagle to the floor in a blink.

            If this game had changed to Tag, nobody told Paul.

            He managed only a peep before the weight made it hardly possible to inflate his lungs, let alone level a verbal protest. His head was swimming. Maybe they’d known where he was as soon as they entered the room and only delayed to toy with his brain. So they could then also toy with his very breakable frame like a moth trapped in flypaper. Patricia’s leg twisted.

            Just when the boy was certain his organs would pop out the sides of his body from the assault, though, the pressure relented. By some miracle unknown, his mother’s shoe was lifting off of her half-inch son. It came to rest back on the oat-flecked tile where it stood before as though nothing had happened.

            “What do you say, ladies?” Patricia questioned. “For the sake of the game? Ten second head start?”

            “I knew he had to be a mama’s boy,” Debra sighed with obvious disappointment. “You truly do spoil him, Patricia. Honestly.”

            “It would be unfortunate to end the fun so soon…” Kathleen admitted.

            “Are you waiting for something, sweetie?” Patricia asked of her son. She tucked both hands under her apron, raising the cushy flap up in her palms, then flattened it back down. “Next time, Mummy will use just a little bit more oomf. So you’d best be running along.”

            Paul didn’t need to be told twice. Tail between his legs, he darted under the majestic archway of his mother’s meaty legs and cascading petticoats beneath her ample purple dress. Spirits wounded and erection only hardened, the boy made for the vent again unmolested. They allowed him to re-enter the relative safety of the walls.